


The Oak in the Clearing

by UrsulaKohl



Category: The Raven Tower - Ann Leckie
Genre: Camping, M/M, Rhetorical Questions, Theology, ro2sid exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 14:00:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18551212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UrsulaKohl/pseuds/UrsulaKohl
Summary: Here is something that might have happened. You were sitting with Mawat, beside a fire you had built, when he asked you, "Eolo, who was your first love?"





	The Oak in the Clearing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bisexuallegolas](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=bisexuallegolas), [aurora_chiroptera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurora_chiroptera/gifts).



> Happy Republic of Two Systems Independence Day!
> 
> Thanks to Kate Nepveu, Miriam R., and flowersforgraves for beta-reading and answering my philosophical questions about the nature of fluff.

Do you think I only noticed you when you rode into the city? Do you know what it means, for a god to notice something? Perhaps you have had the experience of meeting someone's eyes, a man's eyes. Maybe those eyes seemed warm, warm in the way that an earthenware pot holds heat, and you were certain in that moment that you were seen. But sometimes, perhaps, you realize that you have walked differently, carried your shoulders in a certain way, because you are aware that you might be observed, though you could not name a particular pair of eyes that have regarded you, or say whether the brows above them are thick and dark or shaped into an arch. And sometimes, perhaps, you know things without seeing. 

This may happen more often for a god, for whom the processes of perception are more diffuse. I can say for certain that I have been aware of events even in a night when clouds covered the stars, even without humans carrying lamps or making torches. My first awareness of you was possibly of that flavor, inasmuch as noticing can be said to have a flavor. 

But what is first? Can something be a first time if it happens, but is not marked or recorded? Certain events, surely, you recognize as important when they happen. Your first conversation with Mawat was such an event, perhaps. But other times seem ordinary, and other actions are repeated, so that it is difficult to characterize a particular event, as opposed to describing the sorts of things that usually happen. Humans may swear using the name of a god, or otherwise invoke a god's attention, without specifically expecting a response, to give a specific example. Are you able to name all of the times that you cursed, or did not curse? Have you contemplated which gods, and when, might have noticed your invocations?

Here is something that might have happened. Perhaps it happened in this way, as a first time. But perhaps you did not say all of these things on the same day, or in the same order. Or perhaps these things came to matter through repetition, through subtle variations on the patterns you might have seen and the words you might have said.

You were walking along a path in the forest, with Mawat, whom you referred to, consistently, as the lord Mawat. I suppose you judged it safe to walk instead of riding, in this part of the forest, and in this company. It was an uneasy, intermediate time of year. The trees bore bright green leaves, and the days stretched long and sunny, but the nights were still cold. The path was thick with the bodies of dead leaves, slowly converting into dirt. You brushed aside clouds of midges as you walked, though none of them happened to bite. The only other motion, aside from you and Mawat, came from small forest creatures: red-brown squirrels with tufted ears, and here and there a bird. You watched one bird long enough to notice the flash of yellow underneath its beak. Perhaps you hoped that it ate midges.

The path changed direction often. Sometimes it dipped into a gully lined with wet moss, or swung from side to side to negotiate the slipperiness of a particular hill, but the general tendency of the path was upward. You reached your destination late in the afternoon, a flat space, perhaps three-quarters up the way up a long, steep hill. The slope dropped off quite steeply here, with facets of vertical gray rock, and here and there a sapling struggling to hold on. A ring of stones was set near the cliff face, surrounding a few long-cold ashes. Tradition said that the Forest permitted fires here, in association with the shrine. 

The shrine had not been shaped by human hands, at least not in any way you recognized. It was made from the roots of an oak that grew up against the slope where the hill began to rise again. The roots were thick, thicker than Mawat's arm or thigh. Most were covered in ridges of bark, but one was smooth, like a pebble that had spent years tumbling in a river. Together, the rough roots and the smooth one framed an opening the size of a small cave or a very large burrow. In another place, this might have been the home of a rodent collecting acorns, but you saw no sign of such a creature. The opening twisted into blackness, under the roots of the oak.

A woman might have left a scrap of fabric hanging from one of the oak's branches, taken from her weaving or traded for other work of her hands. In the usual custom, men of Iraden did not make such permanent claims on the God of the Silent. You looked at Mawat, wondering what sort of offering was appropriate at this shrine, in this place. He gathered soil in his left hand, leaf-mould crumbling into dirt, spat into it, and smeared the resulting mud across the roots like paint, in three broad stripes. "Patient God, you who quietly and steadily protect the Forest, grant protection also to your warrior, standing here." Mawat's invocation had an unusual level of rhetorical flourish. Perhaps the warmth and steadiness of your attention made him more expansive. 

You copied Mawat's actions, gathering your own handful of earth and repeating, "Patient God who quietly, steadily protects the Forest, grant your protection to your man, standing here." 

There was no immediate response. Whatever god protected the Forest, in those days, was not given to dramatic gestures. I had my own tasks, which had once belonged to the Silent. The soldiers of Iraden did not fall ill from lack of nourishment and the leaves on the Forest trees did not curl and fall before their time; that was sufficient. 

I did not specifically grant either of your requests. But was I aware of them? Did I know that you, Eolo, wished for protection from a patient god? Was I more disposed to listen to your questions, because you had made such a wish? When a call is performed openly, to any god with such-and-such a trait, which god should answer?

You didn't think about any of these abstract questions. The sun was sinking, past the other side of the hill, and there were more immediate demands on your attention. You gathered twigs and bits of bark, murmuring thanks to the Forest, and set them in a loose sort of triangle, with a bit of charcloth at its center. The fire started quickly. You watched it closely, keeping the flames well within the ring of stones, but you also hummed a little to yourself, anticipating hot, savory porridge and a quiet evening. After you had eaten your dinner and scrubbed out the pot, you put another branch on the fire. The flames jumped and wavered. Behind them, the sky over the cliff-face would have seemed empty and black. 

Mawat sat beside you, and the conversation turned to people you both knew. Perhaps you were discussing Sakin, a soldier certain in his attractions. In drill he seemed more concerned with the eyes of onlookers than the success or failure of his blows. You had tried many strategies to inspire him to strike more accurately, taking the direct path for his blade rather than dawdling through flourishes. All had been ineffective, perhaps because Sakin already received the attention he sought. He greeted all he met with such unfeigned ease and cheer that, it seemed, wherever he lay down, his arms were never empty. 

"But Eolo, you are also strong, and certain in your choices," said Mawat. "You must also find lovers, when you wish for them. Who was your first love?"

You poked at the fire with a stick. Sparks shattered from one of the branches. "My lord, I don't know that I have ever loved anybody, in that way. I have had particular friends, sometimes. But these days they know I am leaving, to ride where the army bids me ride. And when I was younger, I knew that I would be going away, even if my friends did not." You set down your stick, and turned Mawat's question back upon him, judging, perhaps, that it was the sort of inquiry people make when they wish to talk about themselves. "Who was your first love, my lord?"

"Oh, my first love was the attendant to an ambassador. She had a bracelet made of silver bells, and she taught me how to dance. When the ambassador took his embassy back home with him, I was so angry, I didn't speak or eat for a week. Not a scrap of bread."

"And your second love?" you asked.

"Oh, my second love was an acrobat in truth. He was slender, and strong, the way a knife is strong. He could walk on his hands and imitate the calls of birds. I lived and breathed for his smile." Mawat laid his arm over your shoulders.

"My lord," you said, "you know that I have killed for you, and will again. And will die for you, if it comes to that. But I can't—I can't be wrapped up in you, the way you are describing. Not if I am to guard you, as you should be guarded."

"Oh, Eolo," Mawat said, laughter in his voice, "You are always my best soldier. I have had many loves, and I would try this with any friend who came here with me, in this way. Does that help?"

Perhaps it did, for you laughed aloud, and turned your face towards him. His bracelets gleamed in the firelight as he reached toward you, touching the curve of your ear, the line of your chin. Your kiss was long and slow.

The next morning, you woke early, as was your custom. You slipped out from under the pile of cloaks and blankets that you shared with Mawat, and pulled on your trousers and your belt. You knelt beside the oak, touching your eyes and then your stomach, in a gesture of respect. "Patient God," you said, "I promise, I will strive to be worthy of your care."

No god answered, not then. You began packing your possessions, quietly, wrapping the tinderbox so it would not clink against the pot. Mawat stirred in his sleep, his braids spilling across the bunched-up tunic that served him as a pillow. You smiled, a little, without knowing that you smiled.

And I? Perhaps I was turning in a tower, not marking individual soldiers or individual trees. Or perhaps I was pleased, as gods can be pleased, without an outward sign. The small beer you drank for your breakfast was rich and nourishing, and as you hiked down the hillside, early morning sunlight filtering through the trees, the air was clear and the midges were absent, perhaps resting, elsewhere.


End file.
